gs. It takes a long time to break a hound off of deer,
once he's chased them. Buckskin is full of deer, wolves, coyotes, and
there's the wild horses. We couldn't go a hundred feet without crossin'
trails."

"How's the hound you and Jim fetched in las' year? Has he got a good
nose? Here he is--I like his head. Come here, Bowser--what's his name?"

"Jim named him Sounder, because he sure has a voice. It's great to hear
him on a trail. Sounder has a nose that can't be fooled, an' he'll
trail anythin'; but I don't know if he ever got up a lion."

Sounder wagged his bushy tail and looked up affectionately at Frank. He
had a fine head, great brown eyes, very long ears and curly
brownish-black hair. He was not demonstrative, looked rather askance at
Jones, and avoided the other dogs.

"That dog will make a great lion-chaser," said Jones, decisively, after
his study of Sounder. "He and Moze will keep us busy, once they learn
we want lions."

"I don't believe any dog-trainer could teach them short of six months,"
replied Frank. "Sounder is no spring chicken; an' that black and dirty
white cross between a cayuse an' a barb-wire fence is an old dog. You
can't teach old dogs new tricks."

Jones smiled mysteriously, a smile of conscious superiority, but said
nothing.

"We'll shore hev a storm to-morrow," said Jim, relinquishing his pipe
long enough to speak. He had been silent, and now his meditative gaze
was on the west, through the cabin window, where a dull afterglow faded
under the heavy laden clouds of night and left the horizon dark.

I was very tired when I lay down, but so full of excitement that sleep
did not soon visit my eyelids. The talk about buffalo, wild-horse
hunters, lions and dogs, the prospect of hard riding and unusual
adventure; the vision of Old Tom that had already begun to haunt me,
filled my mind with pictures and fancies. The other fellows dropped off
to sleep, and quiet reigned. Suddenly a succession of queer, sharp
barks came from the plain, close to the cabin. Coyotes were paying us a
call, and judging from the chorus of yelps and howls from our dogs, it
was not a welcome visit. Above the medley rose one big, deep, full
voice that I knew at once belonged to Sounder. Then all was quiet
again. Sleep gradually benumbed my senses. Vague phrases dreamily
drifted to and fro in my mind: "Jones's wild range--Old
Tom--Sounder--great name--great voice--Sounder! Sounder! Sounder--"

Next morning I could